The Elegant Sea of Savagery

Chapter 2

Do Not Be So Quick to Help

In order to explain this toxic relationship, we must travel back seven years in time. It was the Royal Academy of Kisen where Irina Nordiak and Ileanor Schuberg first met.

Irina was only seventeen years old. Most young aristocratic ladies at that age liked to impersonate noblewomen, refusing to even laugh without covering their mouths. But not Irina. She hated that sort of thing with a passion. In other words, she was a hopeless tomboy.

House Nordiak was always sending someone over to the Academy to watch over her, afraid of what sort of trouble their eldest daughter would cause next. Likewise, Ileanor was also different from his own peers. Having just turned eighteen years old, the young man was taciturn to an unbelievable degree. Nobody in the Academy had ever seen him smile, and the number of people who’d made actual conversation with him could be counted on one hand.

Ileanor was the son of Count Schuberg’s mistress. His mother was a woman of the streets, and until he was formally adopted by the count, he had grown up in a brothel. He was an illegitimate child with a pretty face, the son of an ungodly woman. It was hard to tell whether his unique personality was innate to him, or just a product of his environment. But one thing was for sure—his childhood had not been easy.

He and Irina were the Academy’s most problematic students. They were always a hot conversation topic, the subject of countless rumors. And their first encounter was on a brisk autumn day, well into the semester.

* * *

“What the hell.”

Ileanor didn’t answer, and merely stared at his book that had dropped to the floor. His face was fair, his eyes cast in deep shadow. For a boy, he was definitely on the prettier side. But there was no expression whatsoever in his shapely features.

This was no accident.

It wasn’t the first time someone had tried to pick a fight with him at school. Usually, Ileanor ignored the provocations and moved on.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.”

Ileanor said nothing.

“You’re the one who bumped into me. Why aren’t you apologizing?”

Naturally, his unresponsiveness only triggered other boys his age. Ileanor knew this all too well. He found it annoying at times, but not enough for him to actually want to deal with them. And certainly not enough for him to be more sociable and get along with everyone.

He could always get past bullies like this. He already knew that the world was full of rotten apples. When Ileanor quietly bent down to pick up his book, one of the bullies forcefully shoved his shoulder. Ileanor managed to withstand the first couple of pushes, but the moment he lost his balance, he fell on his behind at someone’s impatient punch.

These were all sons of aristocrats who’d been strictly educated on etiquette—but they were also teenagers. Here in this place existed a society separate from the one constructed by their noble families. And in this society, Ileanor Schuberg was clearly a second-class citizen. He was ridiculed for his upbringing at the brothel, for who his mother was, for his shameful birth.

For Ileanor, the insults easily went in one ear and out the other. His face showed no signs of sorrow or even anger. Once again, he bent down to pick up his book. Then he paused, when he noticed someone trying to step on his hand.

Ileanor didn’t want the Schubergs hearing from the school if he could help it. But he didn’t want to get his hands dirty, and so he straightened up with a sigh. It turned out he was a germaphobe who couldn’t stand to have anyone touch him.

Smack!

That was when a deafening blow rang throughout the hallway. The gang of bullies, as well as all the other students who’d been watching, gaped at the sight with their jaws hanging open. It was a young girl with flaming red hair who had intervened out of the blue and slapped one of the bullies. Everyone in the Academy knew who she was already—Irina Nordiak.

“What are you doing?” she asked brightly, even though she’d been the one to attack first. She was too cheerful, actually, and it drove the bully mad.

“C-crazy b-b*tch...” he spat.

Irina fell silent for a moment, her expression incredulous.

“Are you saying that to me?

You can’t be serious, are you?” she asked innocently, though her face made it clear to everyone that she found him a joke.

She was surrounded by boys far bigger than her, but she didn’t look afraid in the least. It was no wonder she was more famous for her reckless and wild temper than her title as the eldest daughter of a marquess. Contrary to all the expectations that she’d strike again, Irina instead opened her mouth to speak. Those who heard her turned pale as they whimpered and covered their mouths in shock.

In a bright and silvery voice, she was uttering unspeakable profanities, each sentence more graphic and violent than the next. And at last, when she began making various references to male genitalia with that ladylike mouth of hers, her classmates turned away from her one by one.

Her threats were just too vulgar for young and sheltered aristocrats to hear. This was precisely what one might call ear contamination. No one knew where Irina had even managed to pick up such filthy words. Indecency aside, she was now getting too noisy, and the students clamped their hands over their ears to block out the sound.

After her tirade of threats and insults, Irina gazed pitifully at the rest of the gang. The contempt in her eyes was unmistakable.

“It’s embarrassing to be insulted in front of everyone, isn’t it? Then you shouldn’t do it to other people. You’re a real asshole, you know that?” she said, taking a step forward. She had a tall yet rather delicate figure, but her fearlessness overpowered everything else. “If you’re mad, then hit me. Go on, I dare you. I wouldn’t be embarrassed, because I did nothing to be ashamed of.”

The bullies hesitated for a moment, then sourly slunk away. It wasn’t because they couldn’t beat one skinny girl in a fight—they simply didn’t know what they should do. They couldn’t actually start a brawl with one single girl, and besides, it was obvious that Irina already held all the control.

Ileanor stared at her in stunned silence, then pulled himself together and chuckled without even realizing it. It was a rare smile that hardly appeared on his face, but it wasn’t exactly a pleasant expression either. He was just flabbergasted. He had never asked anyone for help. This was kindness that made him uncomfortable, because he didn’t want it.

Once the situation was diffused, Ileanor spat blood on the floor. His lip was apparently torn, because it stung. When he bent down a third time to pick up his book, he was interrupted yet again.

“You’re Ileanor Schuberg, right?”

Surprised that anyone would recognize him, Ileanor stared back at Irina. Then he gave a curt nod. From up close, Irina’s face was much friendlier than he’d thought. In fact, she looked so innocent that it was hard to imagine she’d slapped a boy across the face just moments ago. Ileanor narrowed his eyes before he knew it.

He could see that Irina Nordiak was no ordinary girl. She had an impressive face, with blazing red hair and golden eyes that glittered in the sun. He stared at her hair, which reminded him of fire, or perhaps a sunset, then looked down at the handkerchief she held out to him.

It was meant for him to wipe his mouth, but when he didn’t accept it, Irina forced it into his hand. Then she asked, “Why are you always picked on by Martin’s gang?”

Ileanor actually didn’t know which one of them was Martin. But Irina still looked frustrated.

“It’s because you never fight back, you know.”

Ileanor felt indignant to hear that. There were plenty of reasons not to fight—because he could never win against three, because it wasn’t worth it, because fighting one time wouldn’t put a stop to all the rest. But what Irina said next was something completely different.

“Well, don’t be like that. You did nothing wrong.”

Ileanor didn’t answer.

“If you’re going to lose, at least go out in style,” Irina added.

Ileanor slowly studied her face again. That was when he finally realized that she was angry about something. His expression turned inscrutable. This girl wasn’t telling him to win. In fact, she seemed to already assume that he’d lose. She was rather telling him not to go down without a fight.

It was probably honor that she spoke of. A concept that young Ileanor had never once considered, and would never value in the future. It was a contradictory phrase anyway, to lose with honor.

Ileanor’s dark blue gaze bore into her aristocratic golden eyes. If his entire life had been nothing but a black night sea, she was like his first experience of brightness. He tried to ignore her like he did most things, but he was weak and vulnerable at that age. Now that her light was shed on his darkest, innermost corners, he felt a bit of humiliation, as well as admiration.

When Ileanor didn’t answer, Irina crossly pouted her lip, thinking she was being ignored. Then she spun around and walked away. Left alone, Ileanor stood there for a long time, staring down at the handkerchief she’d passed him. Something like this could be a meaningless encounter to some, but a life-changing event for others. Frankly, it could happen anywhere.

Helping out a person in trouble isn’t uncommon. It could be due to a sense of justice, or simply an action that doesn’t require much effort. Or perhaps it could just be nosiness. But those who exercise extreme caution refrain from acting, and instead observe the situation closely. Such people are worried that their help might come back to bite them later.

It may sound heartless, but this is the message of the story. Do not be so quick to help. You cannot begin to fathom what kind of result it can bring into your life later on. You can never know who the weaker person is, whether the person you are helping is good or evil.